


Butter

by wavewright62



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Life on the Madsen Family Farm, Nostalgia, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 04:37:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9583934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wavewright62/pseuds/wavewright62
Summary: Fresh produce is a thing of beauty, and farming can be very rewarding.  But Mikkel Madsen doesn't care for the farm life, and sometimes has difficulty fitting back in when he's forced to go back there between jobs.  And yet, part of him will always come from the farm.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Alphabet challenge, for the letter B.

"Grandma runs the cream extractor."

"Darn right I do." The elderly lady patted the device and smiled down at the her youngest grandson, Martin.

Mikkel pointed Martin at the churn, "…and you churn. That's the rules."

Martin squirmed out of Mikkel's grasp. "Papa makes Mille do the churning, and I get to scrape. Mamma and Mette squeeze it and pack it. _Those_ are the rules, these days."

"Since when?" Mikkel drew himself up to full height, puffed out his chest, and raised his eyebrows as he looked down at his little brother. That was usually enough to put the little ones properly into their place.

It didn't work; Martin glowered up at his older brother, and not that far up, either. "Since when you're not here," Martin sat down at the churn, not meeting Mikkel's eyes, but not starting the churning either, "and now Mille went off with Hendrik and won't come back to churn, thanks to _you_ letting her go. Thank you very much."

"Hendrik?! I saw him, he was here for _Mille?_ ," Mikkel huffed, "Mille's too young to have a boyfriend!"

"Mikkel dear," Grandma Anne interrupted, "he's right. Mille is older than I was when I married your grandfather." Then turning to Martin, she said gently, "do you think you should go get Malthe?"

"Mormor, HE," Martin pointed at Mikkel, "sent him into town on the delivery run." The boy stuck out his chin and glared at Mikkel.

"Oh dear." Anne's shoulders dropped with chagrin as she looked back to Mikkel. "Oh dear. Mikkel, Malthe… Malthe is not the best choice for the delivery run."

Mikkel's eyebrows drew together over his deep-set eyes, and he put his hands on his hips. "Nonsense. He's a good strapping lad now, and can lift the cans easily, more easily than Papa can these days."

"Yes, until he gets a tune in his head. And then…, well," Anne ran her hands down her apron as she shrugged, "the cans stay on the wagon, and the oxen go where they like, and when he finally works out his tune and comes home, the milk's not been delivered and has spoiled." She looked at Martin and smiled at him. "I've sent this one with him a few times to keep him on track. He's almost big enough to take the delivery run by himself."

Martin puffed out his skinny chest. "I _am_ big enough, Mormor. I get the best price, too."

Mikkel deflated a little. "So that's why Malthe was doing the milking, even though he's so big."

Anne sighed and nodded as she turned to the cream extractor and poured in the first batch. "He likes it, so he can think about music. He sings to the cows, you know." She glanced up mischievously at Mikkel, "the girls like it too, they are making better milk these days."

Mikkel kept his face neutral, but Anne could see the sideburns bristle before he pronounced, "Very well. I'll help churn today, and I'll take the delivery run back after that."

Grandma Anne didn't answer but gave a small smile as she set the centrifuge running. In her mind she asked, yes, but how long until you run off again? She handed over the batch of cream. "You know, boys, nobody got a better price than my mother-in-law. Nobody." Mikkel started turning the paddles, but nodded along. He'd heard quite a few stories over the years about the feisty woman stranded on Bornholm when the borders closed, who married his great-grandfather. Anne continued, "Magnus was a big bear of a man like his father and like you, Mikkel, but he would take his mother with him on the butter run. Signe was tiny, but she was clever, and she had a way of making grown men squirm."

Martin asked, "What about you, Mormor, did she scare you?"

Anne finished readying the cream extractor for the next batch. "Why, what a peculiar question! No, I got along with Signe. More or less." She snorted. "She had a soft heart, did Signe, for her boy, and she decided I was the one for her precious Magnus after she saw me help the farm's best cow through a double breach birth, even after she stomped on my foot."

"Great-grandma stomped on your foot?"

"No, silly, the _cow_ trod on me, and almost took my arm off, too, when I was groping around in there. Mikkel, boy, mind, that butter sounds done," Anne interrupted Mikkel. "Martin, your turn. I wouldn't put it past Signe to stomp on people's feet, though. No, I was angling for Magnus anyway, in those days living on a farm meant you would probably get something to eat more often than not." She shook her head at the memory of those lean years.

Martin scraped out the churn while Mikkel got a second churn prepared. As always, Mikkel was distracted by the beautiful fresh butter. One of the only good things about being stuck on the family farm (again) was the fresh milk and that amazing, pale butter. Butter on your porridge, butter slathered on bread, tray after tray of beautiful butter cookies that would melt in your mouth…

\---------------------

…Mikkel sighed as he broke his reverie and looked into the bowl of alleged cookie dough glinting in the dim light from the window of the tank. It was no use wishing for proper butter out here in the Silent World. He would just have to make do with the oil and malt syrup biscuits he could concoct from the tank's stores. Even the rancid excuse for butter they served in the army barracks was better than this.

He stolidly patted out the dough on his board and cut rounds using one of the drinking cups. The Finns liked them well enough, and Sigrun would eat anything that wasn't green, but they weren't the real thing. It almost made him nostalgic for the farm. Almost.


End file.
